


A Life With Some Diversions

by iberiandoctor (jehane)



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Crack Treated Seriously, Dubious fake dating strategies from pulp detective novels, Fake Dating, Fake Flirting, Javert has a giant cat, M/M, Montreuil-sur-Mer, Pets, Pre-Slash, Reading, Redemption via improving literature and a cat, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Victor Hugo Pastiche, pet owner au, pop Enlightenment philosophy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 07:49:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14996201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/pseuds/iberiandoctor
Summary: Inspector Javert comes to Montreuil with a hobby, and a cat.





	A Life With Some Diversions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akatonbo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akatonbo/gifts).



> ...you suggested, _Javert really needs a hobby, or a cat, or both_ , and I agree ;) Beta by Kainosite and Esteven.

It was undisputed: the town of Montreuil-sur-Mer owed its recent prosperity to a man named Madeleine. 

This individual had single-handedly rescued the town’s traditional industry in jet trinkets known as “black goods”; in the short span of five years, he had built a factory that employed fully a quarter of Montreuil’s working populace, given half his income to the poor, and transformed the sleepy town into the department’s most prosperous municipality.

Of his origin, nothing was known. It was rumoured that he had come to town with very little money, a few hundred francs at the most. The undisputed facts were these: on the day of his arrival in Montreuil, a large fire had broken out in the town hall; the man had rushed into the flames and saved, at the risk of his own life, two children of the captain of the gendarmerie. The townsfolk had been so grateful they omitted to ask him for his passport. It was only afterwards that they had learned his name. 

This much was agreed about him: he was a man about fifty years of age, who had an unassuming and preoccupied air, and who was almost universally beloved. The town owed him much; the poor owed him everything. His workmen in particular adored him, and he endured their adoration with an air of melancholy gravity. 

Furthermore, Montreuil’s matrons did not fail to notice the agreeable symmetry of his features, the muscular strength of his broad body — which seemed more suited to a man half his age — as well as the lack of a spouse in his household. They simpered in his presence, and made unladylike remarks behind his back, and issued a thousand advances to him both public and private. With the same air of sadness, he endured and rejected them all. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, the demand for his society flourished, and invitations continued to multiply even as his fortunes continued to rise.

Such was the widespread sentiment in the town at the time that a newcomer from Paris arrived in the district. 

This new arrival cast a certain cloud over the harmonious accord that had been in effect across Montreuil since Madeleine’s arrival. Thereafter, when Monsieur Madeleine was passing by Montreuil’s main square — calm, affectionate, surrounded by the blessings of all — more frequently than not there would be standing there, in front of the nearby station-house, a man of lofty stature, clad in an iron-grey frock-coat, armed with a heavy cane, and wearing a battered hat. This man would stop what he was doing, and follow Madeleine with his eyes, with folded arms and a slow cock of the head, and a quizzical grimace, as if to say: "Who is that fellow? Something about him strikes me, but I cannot say what that is."

This stranger’s name was Javert, and he was Montreuil-sur-Mer’s new inspector of police.

This much was known about him. In Montreuil-sur-Mer he held his post due to the protection of M. Chabouillet, the secretary of Comte Anglès, then prefect of police in Paris. 

He, too, had not arrived in Montreuil with any grand estate. According to his extremely resourceful landlady, his one battered trunk had contained exactly two sets of grey waistcoat and jacket and uniform trousers, and three cravats that were also grey, the _couleur de murailles_. Such was the informal uniform of the _patrouilles grises_ , the grey patrols, which had lately become known for frequenting the streets of Paris by night, making arrests both rightful and arbitrary. In addition, the trunk had also contained three cotton shirts, recently mended, two sets of undergarments, and one night-shirt. She had thus concluded that the new inspector only possessed one hat, one frock-coat, and one pair of boots, which he wore on a daily basis — and that he must occasionally sleep in the nude, at least when his single night-shirt was being washed. 

The rest of the trunk had apparently contained an inordinate number of books, and also a cat.

“A cat! Inside the trunk? Are you quite sure?” the townsfolk had enquired in tones of disbelief, when this observation had first been vouchsafed.

“Certainly,” affirmed the hapless landlady, a widow by the name of Voilquin. “A most feral beast, orange in hue, and so large I first took it for a small tiger!”

“Well, I never,” Voilquin’s interlocutors had invariably remarked, and further comment — as to how a cat might have survived the diligence journey from Paris confined in a trunk, or regarding the unlikelihood of this particular large, feral, tiger-seeming cat agreeing to be so confined in the first place — had necessarily been quashed by the glowering presence of said cat, not to mention the even more glowering presence of the police inspector.

Where the inspector walked, the cat followed, pacing tirelessly his heel, and occasionally curled around his shoulders like a most unfashionable neck ornament.

As for the rest of the inspector’s appearance, it was a far cry from the handsome countenance of Monsieur Madeleine. The face of Javert consisted of a flat nose, towards which enormous whiskers ascended upon his cheeks, very little skull, and a great deal of jaw; his thick dark voluminous hair concealed his forehead and fell over his eyebrows — in sum, most of his face was habitually hidden behind hair and whiskers and orange fur. 

If the petty criminals of Montreuil were given to gossip, they would have this intelligence to impart: at rest, the inspector appeared to blend into his surroundings — his eyes were not visible, since they were lost under his eyebrows: his chin was not visible, for it was plunged in his cravat: his hands were not visible; for they were drawn up in his sleeves: his cane was not visible; for he carried it under his coat; his constant companion was not visible, save as a ginger shadow of indeterminate origin. But when the occasion presented itself, there was suddenly seen to emerge from all this obfuscation, as from an ambuscade, a narrow and angular forehead, a baleful glance, a threatening chin, enormous hands, and a monstrous cudgel, as well as a snarling, clawing, spike-toothed spitfire that aimed itself unerringly at eyes and throat and soft tissues.

In no time at all, Javert had become the terror of Montreuil’s criminal population. The name of Javert routed them by its utterance; the appearance of Javert petrified them at sight; to say nothing of his animal familiar, this quasi-tiger who was as welcoming of the fray as its indomitable master.

Such was this cat, and such was its formidable owner.

When he had taken his measure of the town, the new inspector found his eye constantly drawn to Monsieur Madeleine. It was an unwavering eye full of suspicion and conjecture, and there seemed to be something else even more meaningful there besides. 

Of course, Madeleine could not fail to perceive Javert’s unswerving scrutiny. Still, for a time, he did not react. He did not seek to confront Javert; he neither sought nor avoided him; he bore that almost-oppressive gaze without appearing to notice it. Indeed, he treated Javert with ease and courtesy, as he did all the rest of the world.

It was intimated, by the garrulous sergeant at the station-house, that the new inspector had initiated covert investigations into anterior traces of Monsieur Madeleine’s past; in particular, as to a certain district and a family which had disappeared. 

“When the Inspector came in this morning, he was talking to himself — or maybe he was talking to the cat! — but he was saying, _’I think I have him!’_ ” that young man announced one evening at the local tavern.

But thereafter Javert had reportedly said nothing all the next week, not even to the cat, and the sergeant put it about that the thread of investigations had likely come to naught.

After all, there can be nothing omniscient in even the most finely-honed policeman’s instinct. Even hunting beasts such as dogs and wolves may be thrown off the track, and defeated. 

Clearly, the sergeant suggested, there was no real reason for suspicion. Javert had merely been caught off-guard by the naturalness and tranquillity and unnatural comeliness of Monsieur Madeleine. 

This ought not to be surprising; as previously noted, no man’s instinct is infallible, and besides, Javert himself was obviously unmarried, with no Parisian spouse having accompanied him to his humble lodgings. He had also rebuffed the three invitations from the town’s boldest matrons. This was rather fewer than Madeleine had received in his first year in town, for it took a brave woman to countenance sharing her household with the snarling orange beast.

“Perhaps the Inspector is an admirer of men instead,” said the recently-rebuffed Widow Fontaine, shrugging her shapely shoulders with equanimity. “And if that’s the case, there is no man finer than our gallant Monsieur Madeleine!”

“But surely our Inspector mislikes Monsieur Madeleine,” protested Mademoiselle Anton, the assistant post-mistress. “They cannot stand in the street together without Monsieur Javert glaring daggers at him!”

The Widow Fontaine patted her friend’s hand. “My dear girl, I would not have taken you for such an innocent! In so many of these cases, a profession of enmity is merely attraction in another guise.”

  
  
  
  
 

The rumours continued to circulate, as rumours in a small town are wont to do. At last, Monsieur Madeleine heard something from his housekeeper which gave him pause, and he resolved to finally address the matter of the Inspector’s embarrassing gaze. 

The next day, he set his wide-brimmed hat upon his handsome, greying head, and set out for the town square.

It was early morning. Fortuitously, Inspector Javert was leaving the station-house, cane in his right hand, a rectangular object in his left. Even though he must have spent the night at the station, caught up with his duties, he cut an austere, impressive figure: his posture was ramrod-straight, his habit and whiskers spotless, the stock about his neck perfectly buckled. Perhaps it was the flattering effect of the dawn light, but one might find, in his irreproachable stature and his dogged attention to propriety, something to admire. The omnipresent orange ruff was quiescent across one broad shoulder.

An almost-imperceptible stiffening went through him as he observed Madeleine crossing the square to meet him, and he drew to a halt, allowing that gentleman to approach.

“Good morning, Inspector. I see you have had a late night.”

Javert looked somewhat askance at Madeleine’s bow, which obliged him in his turn to incline his tall body to the minimum degree that would avoid discourtesy.

“Duty calls, Monsieur Madeleine. And you are up and about early yourself.”

“I am an early riser,” Madeleine said, thoughtfully. “The factory opens its doors early, so the workers can break their fast together.”

Javert made a slight harrumphing sound. “You feed all your workers? That must eat into your profits, Monsieur.”

“No living thing ought to go hungry. I would feed the entire town if I could,” said Madeleine, and the unexpected emotion in his voice made Javert’s bushy eyebrows arch upwards despite themselves.

“Indeed,” Javert said. He seemed to be waiting for something; he could even have been waiting for his cat to rouse itself. When this did not occur, he said, stiffly, “You desire to speak with me?”

“I do,” Madeleine said. He shuffled his boots, seemingly reluctant to come to the point of his errand. He looked left and right, as if he was casting about for something to say. He glanced at the Inspector’s cane, and then the object in Javert’s other hand caught his eye.

“The 1789 _Déclaration des droits de l'homme et du citoyen_? Forgive me, Inspector. I would not at first have taken you for a republican.”

At this seemingly casual remark, Inspector Javert inhaled sharply, and drew himself up impossibly straighter. His eyes flashed; his enormous fists clenched; his whiskers bristled. The living ruff about his shoulders shifted ominously.

“Monsieur, with respect, you know nothing of me. I am no republican, nor am I a royalist; I adhere neither to political systems, nor to politicians. The laws may change, the members of the Assembly may change, even the king himself may change, but Authority, and Justice, are constant. Do not seek to apply banal political labels to that great matter which I uphold.”

Madeleine looked taken aback by this outburst, which to all accounts was by far the longest speech that the inspector had ever given during his tenure at Montreuil-sur-Mer. “And what matter is that, Monsieur, if I may ask?”

“Nothing other than the great civilisation of France, and her citizens. The General was right, when oppression was ended and a just society was established; the characteristics of such a civilisation being liberty, property, security and equality. This is what Authority means; this is what Justice means. It is the duty of every public servant to uphold such ideals, as severely as we can, against any malefactor that seeks to undermine the state — and equally we are each to uphold these matters against ourselves.”

This was uttered in a proud, humble, fervent tone, which lent a certain grandeur to this unquestionably irreproachable man.

Then the old suspicion flared to life in his eyes, and he continued, suddenly sly: “To this end, I have considered it my duty to pursue fugitives from justice wherever I may find them. You might find it interesting to know, Monsieur, that in my youth, I was employed in the convict establishments of the South.”

At this pronouncement, it seemed as if a shadow passed over Madeleine’s tranquil, benevolent face — something darker and more despairing: redolent of desperate men chained two by two in the grim prison of the bagne, the reek of bodies labouring under the hot sun and shivering in the freezing cold, subject to the whims and fancies of the prison guards.

Madeleine paused, and then said, in tones of great solemnity: 

“Inspector, according to General Lafayette, is it not true that the state is to mete out only those penalties that are strictly and evidently necessary? And that any man ought only to be punished in accordance to his crime and no more? In fact, the Declaration champions men’s inalienable rights to fair treatment, regardless of their wealth or their birth or their status in society. Should such rights not be extended to those ex-convicts who might have served their sentences and paid their debts to society? How is Justice served if those men were subjected to further extempore punishment?”

Javert paused as well. He might have been forgiven for the astonished expression that had overtaken his otherwise ferocious features, for this was also an uncharacteristically lengthy declaration from the usually taciturn Madeleine.

“You are referring to the ideas of Rousseau,” he murmured, mechanically. “Certainly, Enlightenment thinking has formed the very foundations of our new civilisation. Not every idea, of course — if there are no societal structures, all of Authority would be meaningless, and civilisation itself would collapse! But certainly, the precept that all men should be afforded a certain fairness of treatment cannot be refuted.”

Calmly, as if they were debating matters of philosophy that had no practical application whatsoever, Madeleine pressed home his point. “And by definition, such fairness should be extended to former convicts – who after all are still citizens of our great civilisation?”

Javert stood stock-still. His whiskers bristled as before; his fists clenched; his lantern jaw hung slightly open. Behind his eyes, it would seem a storm was brewing, with swirling thunder-clouds that resembled a dark and gaping abyss... 

Just as he opened his mouth to deliver some thundering rebuttal, the bundle of auburn fur unfolded itself, and turned piercing green eyes toward Madeleine. A massive paw stretched out its claws; a mouth full of dangerous teeth opened in a wide, deceptive yawn.

Madeleine made a small sound that seemed most unsuited to such a big man. He took a step closer, and stretched out his own hand toward the fearsome creature.

“There, there, puss.”

As some philosophers would have it, animals are nothing else than the figures of human virtues and human vices come to life. God allows them to walk among us in order to hold a mirror up to our very souls. In that way, animals are also uniquely capable of discernment, being full of veritable instinct, pure and upright, in the way that even suspicious policemen are not. And like all instinct, which creates natural antipathies and sympathies, which draws and separates one nature from another nature, there is one particular instinct which, in whatever manner destinies are arranged, announces to the cat the presence of the dog; to the owl, the presence of the eagle, and to the fox, the presence of the lion. 

As noted before, this was no ordinary cat — but then, Monsieur Madeleine was no ordinary man. As no one in all of Montreuil had dared to do, he reached up as if it were the most natural thing in the world, stroked one finger along the animal's head, and began to scratch it behind the ears.

Javert stood immobilised; frozen either by outrage or by utter astonishment. The cat itself also kept still, neither leaning into the touch nor pulling away; most materially, it did not launch itself with teeth and claws extended to sink into the interloper. 

Madeleine ran his hand along the furry orange back. Astoundingly, the cat still did not attack him. When the man raised his hand once again to scratch behind its ears, it caused a sound that had never before been heard in Montreuil’s open spaces.

The orange monster, the dreaded scourge of vagrants and vermin across the country, was _purring_. 

“What a magnificent animal,” Madeleine said, at length.

Javert’s lantern jaw had fallen open; he now shut it with a snap as he came back to himself. “Indeed,” he muttered, clearly momentarily unable to say anything else.

Madeleine persisted. “What is its name?”

Reluctantly, Javert said, “He is called Briard.”

“Is that not a type of military dog favoured by the General?”

“Even so.”

Madeleine withdrew his hand, and the men eyed each other, as if suddenly realising how closely they had been standing, and how Madeleine’s hand had effectively been inches away from the Inspector’s cheek.

Both took a step back, and cleared their throats noisily. Then Javert said, as if the words were being forced from him at gunpoint: “It seems he likes you.”

“I have a way with some animals,” Madeleine said, modestly. His brow shone under the dawn light with the glow of complete innocence.

Javert muttered, almost to himself, “He likes no one. Not even the landlady, who fetches his food.”

“Perhaps he is not easily won over?” Madeleine suggested. Briard meowed, seemingly in agreement.

“You might say that.” Javert fixed this surprising, beast-taming man with a pointed look. “Monsieur, you did not seek me out this morning to discuss books or to pay court to my cat. Why do you not state your business plainly?”

“Ah, yes.” Madeleine examined his boots again as if they were most interesting. “M. l’Inspecteur, I have just been given to understand… it seems that I have been the subject of some recent attention.” He winced, and then plunged bravely ahead: “Attention, that is, from _you_. I… was not sure if there might have been some mistake, or perhaps I had inadvertently given you a certain impression…” 

Had Madeleine looked up at this instant, he would have been fascinated by the baffled look on Javert’s face, followed closely by a slowly dawning horror. 

When Madeleine finally managed to tear his attention away from his boots, he found only a carefully neutral expression, coupled with a certain shrewdness in those piercing eyes.

“Indeed,” Javert said again, with far more emphasis. “Monsieur, I am an unmarried man, and new to the town. As such, I have been the subject of recent attention from the town’s unmarried ladies. Indulging in such attentions would be unseemly in my position, and give rise to gossip. But attentions from a gentleman like yourself, who would have legitimate reasons to avail yourself of police assistance, would not be unseemly.” 

He paused and attempted a smile; it was a terrible thing, like that of an unruly beast. “Albeit that such attentions have given rise to gossip all the same,” said he, and laughed.

Madeleine, too, attempted to laugh. It was equally awful. Briard meowed again, pointedly, as if to remind these humans that it was the inspector’s unseemly attention regarding Madeleine that had been the source of the gossip, and not the other way around.

“Well!” said Madeleine, at length; “this is fortunate! You see, I am myself unmarried, and also receive attentions that would be unseemly for me to encourage. I live very simply, and try to keep to myself… however, there are the invitations that would be discourteous of me to turn away, and then I am forced to compound the problem by attending alone.”

Javert took hold of himself with a visible effort that made him pale to the lips. “Invitations such as the one next Friday, at the residence of our district’s deputy, to commemorate the town’s founding?”

Madeleine seemed somewhat better at hiding his surprise. “Why, yes. Monsieur le député made it clear my presence was required.”

“His assistant sent a note to the station-house to similar effect.” Javert drew in a deep breath. “Perhaps you might permit me to escort you to that celebration, Monsieur?”

Madeleine seemed to hesitate for a moment, but Javert’s meaningful regard appeared to allow no room for refusal. He then smiled his faint, wry smile, and bowed his head. 

“It would be my honour. Perhaps that evening we can continue our discussion of Rousseau.”

“Perhaps we can,” Javert said, and bowed in his turn. A shrewd observer might remark upon how the inspector’s second bow seemed slightly more enthusiastic than his first. Then he turned stiffly and walked off in the directions of his lodgings, Briard draped across his shoulders.

Madeleine watched them go. When Javert turned around to see if the man was still there, the by-then-distant figure of Madeleine touched his finger to the brim of his hat in salute.

“What does that man think he is playing at,” the inspector muttered as he turned away and resumed his journey. “Does he take me for a fool? Or worse, assume that I would be receptive to his attentions, regardless of how charming they might seem?”

Briard made a throaty purring sound, and Javert clucked his tongue. “Pish. _You_ were entirely charmed by him, do not deny it.”

The large orange feline hissed. Javert sighed, “You are a soft touch, old friend. I, on the other hand, am entirely focused on our long-term strategy. After all, in M. Gaboriau’s latest novel, did his detective, Monsieur Lecoq, not further his investigations via a dinner invitation, in much this same way?” 

Briard made a complicated noise that would, in a human, have sounded suspiciously like a sniff; as if to say that pulp novels seldom bore any resemblance to reality.

Javert scratched his companion behind its soft, furry ears. “You are not encouraging at all. I will get the better of him, you’ll see. If he’s the man I think he is, then he will not escape me. And if he isn’t…” The inspector’s voice trailed off, and then he shrugged. “In that event, at least I already know you don’t mind him.”

Briard made a huffing, non-committal sound, and then he curled up into a very large ball and went to sleep. 

Javert did not comment further, but the day seemed to get brighter with each step that he and his companion took towards their home, and towards the new lead in their investigations into the mysterious Monsieur Madeleine.

**Author's Note:**

> Canon Javert had neither hobbies nor a cat, as Hugo describes at length; viz:  
>  _His whole life hung on these two words: watchfulness and supervision. He had introduced a straight line into what is the most crooked thing in the world; he possessed the conscience of his usefulness, the religion of his functions, and he was a spy as other men are priests. Woe to the man who fell into his hands! He would have arrested his own father, if the latter had escaped from the galleys, and would have denounced his mother, if she had broken her ban. And he would have done it with that sort of inward satisfaction which is conferred by virtue. And, withal, a life of privation, isolation, abnegation, chastity, with never a diversion…_  
>  _…In his leisure moments, which were far from frequent, he read, although he hated books; this caused him to be not wholly illiterate. This could be recognized by some emphasis in his speech._  
>  _As we have said, he had no vices. When he was pleased with himself, he permitted himself a pinch of snuff. Therein lay his connection with humanity._
> 
> Javert’s attack cat is named Briard after [ this breed of French police dog](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Briard), of which General Lafayette had apparently [been very fond](http://copycateffect.blogspot.com/2009/02/lafayettes-dogs.html).
> 
> [A word on the grey patrols of the police](https://books.google.com.sg/books?id=9WjHAAAAMAAJ&pg=PA439&lpg=PA439&dq=patrouilles+grises&source=bl&ots=y3BU68yHk0&sig=dxRVmtbDqlu8HSZk_c8rz5QYPng&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwji_cO4-9zbAhUWXSsKHVT7AGcQ6AEIczAP#v=onepage&q&f=false), from F. de Tapiès (chevalier.), 1845, at 459 et seq.
> 
> On the useful hobby of reading: If Javert had actually enjoyed reading, as opposed to doing it because he figured he ought to, or had been even slightly better at reading comprehension (rather than adopting his ideas about civilisation and society from his family background and on-the-job interactions with petty criminals), he might have better internalised Lafayette’s famous [1789 Declaration](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Declaration_of_the_Rights_of_Man_and_of_the_Citizen), an important post-Revolution constitutional document describing the fundamental characteristics of the natural and inalienable rights of man — which included that the law should establish only penalties that are _“strictly and evidently necessary”_ (Art VIII), and that any man ought to be _”presumed innocent until he is declared culpable”_ (Art IX). He might also have been familiar with Jean-Jacques Rousseau and other prominent Enlightenment philosophers of the day, most popularly reflected in the 1762 treatise [_Du contract social, ou Principes du droit politique_ ](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Social_Contract).
> 
> Still on the theme of reading, this story makes anachronistic use of the pulpy detective novels of [Émile Gaboriau (1832-1873)](http://www.online-literature.com/gaboriau/), a French writer of detective novels of the _roman policier_ genre, which are this Javert-who-reads’ guilty pleasure. It seems Eugène François Vidocq's (1775-1857) _Vidocq; Personal Memoirs of the First Great Detective (1828)_ (on which Hugo apparently based both Javert and Jean Valjean) partly inspired Gaboriau’s aptly-named detective, Monsieur Lecoq.


End file.
